


green but for the weather

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: "Let's do a reality tv show," Patrick mocks, hands tight on the wheel of the rental car. "It'll be great. We can travel the world."
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	green but for the weather

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out the backlog.

"Let's do a reality tv show," Patrick mocks, hands tight on the wheel of the rental car. "It'll be great. We can travel the world."

"It's for charity," Pete says sullenly, crossing his arms over his chest. He hasn't shaved in three days, and his jaw is lined with dark, sharp stubble.

They're in Ireland, which has always been one of Patrick's favorite places. Right now, though, he can't see past the red haze of anger to enjoy the beautiful countryside. They're so far off course it's not even funny, and without his cell phone, Pete's been laving attention on his full stop and hoping to have it returned. Patrick misses his bus. He misses doors with locks. He misses a time when he was not forced to be within twenty feet of Pete for fear of disqualification.

"Next time, just do a dinner," Patrick snaps.

There is a cow on the road. A cow, with a bell around its neck, chomping on the grass that's growing through the dirt road. Patrick steps on the brake and does his best not to cry. He should have picked Joe to be on his team, god.

They spend ten minutes watching the cow watch them. It's not moving, and it doesn't even flinch when Pete presses the horn down for a solid thirty seconds. Patrick can't even remember their stupid clue, let alone where the next Pit Stop on the Amazing Race path is. If he's lucky, they've been disqualified.

He grabs the camera that's running from the back seat- a new thing to add to the challenge or whatever- and holds it up in front of his face. The light by the lens blinks at him.

"Day ten, thirty thousand miles down," he says. "We're lost in Ireland because Pete's an idiot. Look at how surprised I am." He can feel Pete's glare on the side of his face, but he Does Not Care. "I'd like to apologize to Invisible Children now for our untimely and humiliating failure."

"You're an asshole," Pete says from the passenger seat. Patrick resettles the camera on the dash and tries to stare down the cow. It doesn't work. "Hey, that looks familiar."

There's a hay pile a ways off in the distance. It looks like all the other hay piles Patrick's ever seen, but Pete seems intent on its uniqueness. They beep at the cow one more time, but it simply lifts its tail and chews on its mouthful of grass.

Pete carries the camera with them as they abandon the car on the side of the road. The weather is pleasant, cool and damp with the thought of rain in the air. Dark clouds float above them in heavy waves, and Patrick wonders how long its going to take for them to break.

"And here's where Patrick tried to choke me to death," Pete narrates, pointing the camera to a cross beam. The camera is hooked to live feed. If it weren't, Patrick would choke him again. "And here's where Joe tackled me to get to the flag first. Yo, Rick, our band is kind of douche-y."

"Well, you're in it, so." Patrick laughs as the sour look Pete gives him. Pete comes to a stop at the hay pile, aiming the camera into the middle.

The stack is nearly as tall as Patrick, and three times as wide. He has no idea why Pete thinks that his stupid fanny pack is here, or how he thinks they're going to find it, but they can't leave the god damn country without it, let alone even try to keep on with the stupid race.

"Have fun looking," Patrick says and flops down onto the ground. The grass is cool and just a little damp under his fingers, thick and lush. He loves the countryside for its beauty, and he's going to love it even more in the next ten minutes when Pete's bitching from inside the stack.

Pete frowns, but hands the camera over and shucks off his hoodie. His arms are lean and brown, his hips showing under the hem of his shirt. Patrick pans up his body and tells the camera to enjoy it.

After cracking his neck and stretching like he's going to run a marathon, Pete dives into the stack with a decisive whoop. Hay flies everywhere, exploding into the air with a soft burst of noise, and Pete totally disappears. It's kind of cool, but also kind of disconcerting.

"Rick," Pete calls a few minutes later, still buried in the stack. "Come help me."

"You're on your own, asshole," Patrick calls back. He sets the camera onto the grass and crosses his legs in front of him. Pete can suffer all day for all Patrick cares.

"Come on," Pete shouts. "I think I see something." There's a rustling of the hay, and Patrick sighs. He picks at his jeans and weighs the pros and cons.

Pro: getting to the checkpoint eventually and going home.

Con: haystack.

"Come on, Stump," Pete yells, and Patrick pushes himself to his feet.

"There better be gold in there," Patrick starts. He's abruptly cut off when Pete's hand wraps around his ankle and drags him down into the stack. His landing is surprisingly soft.

"Hey," Pete says softly. He falls into the stack, but the hay keeps him up. It's scratchy and is poking straight into Patrick's skin, but Pete's warm and smiling, arms loose around Patrick's back, fingers already stuck under his shirt.

"Hey," Patrick whispers back. They've been on the road for days, and they haven't been able to get a moment to themselves. This is nice.

"I didn't lose my fanny pack," Pete says. The nice, floaty feeling freezes. Patrick wraps a hand around Pete's throat and squeezes. He is going to kill him.

"You son of a bitch," he hisses. Pete flails, knees banging against Patrick's. He bats at Patrick's hand, eyes wide and face going red.

"I wanted some time with you," Pete chokes out. "This place was perfect!" When Patrick releases his throat, Pete takes in big, dramatic breaths. Under the hay, it's hotter, the sun beating through the stalks. Patrick can feel sweat already gathering at the small of his back as he glares down at Pete.

"We've been together every minute for the past ten days," Patrick says through grit teeth.

"Yeah, but I couldn't do this." Pete sticks his hand down the back of Patrick's jeans, and oh. Oh.

"You couldn't have, you know, said something instead of making me drive around the countryside?" Patrick fits his thighs around Pete's hips and doesn't fight when Pete's other hand comes up to palm him through his jeans. He's still pissed off, but, hey, he hasn't been laid in nearly two weeks.

"That way’s boring,” Pete says. “Now shh. Camera’s on.”

Patrick’s about to bitch, but Pete kisses him, warm and familiar and a little rough, and Patrick figures he can be forgiven just this once. Pete thumbs the button of his jeans open and curls a hand around Patrick’s half hard cock, fingers loose and hot. The smell of the hay is overwhelming, earthy and sharp, and Patrick ducks his head to Pete’s chest, trying to block some of it out. He rocks into Pete’s touch, and he wonders idly if the camera can see them moving.

“Hey. Hey, move for a sec.” Pete pulls his hand out and shoves at Patrick’s shoulders, wiggling under him. The stack piled on top of them wobbles ominously. Patrick carefully moves to the side, and promptly has the breath knocked out of him by Pete’s weight on his stomach.

Patrick’s going to be finding hay in weird places for weeks. Still, he shimmies when Pete pulls at his jeans and tries not to stick his feet out into view of the camera when Pete settles down between his thighs. He hopes Pete swallows enough hay to choke. After the blowjob.

Pete’s mouth is slick and warm, and Patrick groans, clutching at the grass he can feel under his fingers. With his eyes closed, all he can feel is the scratch of hay against his thighs and Pete’s tongue licking zig-zags up the underside of his dick, sloppy and hurried. Pete rubs his thumb over Patrick’s balls, presses between them lightly as he bobs his head.

He pops off for a second, mouth slick and starting to get puffy, and says, “if we had room, I’d totally fuck you right now.” Patrick grabs a fistful of Pete’s hair and guides him back, thrusts his hips until he slides back into Pete’s mouth, and tells him to shut up.

He can feel Pete laugh around him, the vibration shooting all the way to the back of his spine. He wishes there were room. He wishes there was no one watching. All he’s got is this, though, so he’s going to make the best of it and enjoy Pete’s attempts at taking him whole.

Spit drools down between his legs, drying tacky against the inside of his thighs, and Patrick thinks about how he's going to have to drive like this for the next few hours, how he's going to be wet in his boxers from Pete and no one'll know it but them. He tugs at Pete's hair and Pete grins around him, lips stretched too wide and teeth coming almost too close.

Pete tries to go all the way down and chokes, his throat closing around the head of Patrick's dick, and Patrick almost feels bad when he comes from it.

Pete spits, but the mouthful can't go far, and Patrick can see it on the hay. He wrinkles his nose as he tugs his jeans up, trying to scoot away from it without knocking Pete too far off.

"That's gross, dude," Patrick says as it drips down. "You couldn't have taken one for the team?"

Pete glowers, but it's ruined by the flush across his face. He climbs up and lays flat against Patrick, grinds his hips down. He presses a kiss to Patrick's lower lip and laughs when Patrick flails. It's gross, and Pete knows he hates it, and Patrick's having a hard time not throwing Pete out of the stack.

Instead, he gropes Pete through his stupid tight jeans and bites at the tender junction of his neck and shoulder. He says, "Maybe we can fuck in the shower." Pete thumps his head against Patrick's chest twice, humping shamelessly against Patrick's hand.

Patrick feels the warm wet patch at the front of Pete's jeans before he sees the strained, open mouthed face that he's come to love to mock. Pete slumps against him and sighs.

When they eventually crawl out of the stack, Patrick spares a glance at Pete and bites back a laugh. He may have hay in his underwear, but Pete's jeans are already looking a little stiff in the front, so he figures it's an even trade.

They lose the race spectacularly, but Pete keeps a picture on his phone of a hay field in Ireland for the next three months.


End file.
